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Summary
Stolas inhales sharply when Blitzø pulls at the old feathers around his scar, the shafts dry and brittle, splintering and sending starbursts of pain through his skin. "No," he quickly murmurs, pulling his arm away as gently as he can, terrified that rejecting Blitzø's touch will spell the end of it forever. "My feathers are simply – I fell out of the routine of preening – it's no matter."
OR: When Stolas' feathers gets especially bad, Blitzø lends a helping hand. [Stolitz Lunar New Year 2026]
